“Well edged is thy humor, captain mine!” The ironic respect had given place to the contemptuous tu. “Ójala we had earlier guessed thy wit, to ease the weariness of the siege. Tell me, boy—is this thy fraile?” The question came like a bullet.
“I know not, Excellency,” said Vicente, hesitatingly. “Of that size he was, but his face I saw not well.”
“But it is his voice!” cried Lina impetuously. “And had he the hood, I would know if it is his face—for the capucho covered him well.”
“Little animals!” growled the captain, starting as if to spring at them. But then, commanding himself, he said sullenly: “Until what will your Excellency carry this farce? Am I to be burlado by lying brats of the street? With these gentlemen I have passed the time since I came off duty.”
“It is true, señor generál,” declared the others, who had nervously watched their spokesman, the ranking officer among them. “We have all been together since——”
“Alto!” interrupted Rodil sternly. “You must bring me better witnesses than your tongues. For by my faith, I would see this joke of the moustache played through. Sargento, search this captain of the wits.”
“For pity, mi generál! Shame me not thus!” And the officer fell on his knees.
For answer, Rodil only stretched his lean finger grimly. The sergeant, awkward at disrespectful approach to his superior, laid his hand upon the arm of the risen captain, and in another moment lay sprawling upon the floor. Baca was a young and muscular man; and almost in the same motion with the blow he sprang at the window.
The dumbfounded privates had no time to reach him; but Vicente, in a flash of rage, flung himself at his legs, and the tall officer crashed upon the floor. Before he could rise a dozen soldiers were upon him, and Rodil, his slender sword quivering at half-arm, faced the four other officers.
“There is nothing in his pockets, Excellency,” announced the sergeant.